


between the shadow and the soul

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Het, Prompt Fic, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: I wrote this for the prompt "Jon/Sansa soulmates."When he was a boy, Old Nan had told him stories about soul marks, about the trouble they had wrought on folk who spent their whole lives looking for their match and never found them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written Jon/Sansa in ages, so please let me know what you think!

A nasty fall from his shaggy winter palfrey lands Jon in a drift of snow, his ankle turned at an unnatural angle. He hobbles back onto his horse, but by the time his party makes it to Winterfell his leg is stiff and aching, his movements uncoordinated as he dismounts. 

Jon waves over one of Tormund’s sons and braces himself on the man’s shoulder, slowly making the climb up the steps in the main keep to his chambers.

Deposited on a bench by the fire, Jon keeps his throbbing ankle elevated while his companion fetches Sam to tend to his wound. He can feel the ice in his beard begin to thaw, water trickling over his skin and down his neck, his skin burning unpleasantly as feeling slowly returns to it. 

The oaken door to his chamber creaks open. Framed in the doorway is Sansa, looking impeccably groomed despite the wintry mess outside the castle walls, a basket of dressings and medicines hung in the crook of her arm.

“Let me see it,” she instructs, placing her basket of liniment by his side. 

Jon pulls off his boot obligingly, letting her pale, delicate hands clutch him. Sansa’s hair shines in the yellow light of the fire, showing tones of auburn and dark chestnut. He is so mesmerized by it that he nearly startles out of his seat when she pulls his sock away and touches her bare skin to his.

“It’s quite swollen, isn’t it? I won’t be able to dress it properly with these on,” she says in reference to his breeches. 

Jon quirks an eyebrow at her suggestion. “I had no idea that a simple twisted ankle required an entire body binding.”

“I have to secure the joint properly, otherwise you’ll likely twist it again. Here,” she helps him up with a steady hand, letting Jon brace himself, one of his hands placed on her shoulder while he tugs at the laces of his breeches with the other. 

“Let me,” she says simply, unlacing him, pushing his breeches past the bones of his hips.

Sansa maneuvers him into a sitting position, gently pulling the wool-lined leather of his breeches past his legs. She kneels in front of him, the knees of her skirt pressed into the rushes, and once his legs are bare in front of her Jon sees a change come over her form.

Her warm little hand is barely tracing the skin just below the inside of his right thigh. Slightly above her hand is the blue rose that’s been embedded in his skin since he can remember, the mark he was born with. Jon doesn’t know many people with marks, and the only ones he’s met are other Northerners, people who have never set foot south of the Neck. 

When he was a boy, Old Nan had told him stories about soul marks, about the trouble they had wrought on folk who spent their whole lives looking for their match and never found them.

Kneeling between his legs, Sansa’s chest is rapidly rising and falling. Jon can see a hint of panic on her features, along with several other emotions he can’t identify.

“Sansa, it’s alright. It’s just my mark. I’ve always had it—“

Trembling, she reaches forward and caresses the blue rose on the inside of his thigh. Jon feels something rush through his limbs like a flame spreading over kindling, like the first glorious dip into a warm bath.

“What—“ he says roughly, but before he can cough out a question Sansa is standing, one of her legs braced on the bench beside his hip.

Watching him, she pulls up the hem of her fine dress and tugs her stockings down her thigh, revealing an identical blue rose marring the inside of her shapely leg. The same color, the same shape, placed in exactly the same spot.

Her lower lip between her teeth, she takes his calloused hand in hers and presses his fingers against her mark.

“I have one too,” she breathes.


End file.
